


Journeys End in Lovers’ Meeting

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Great Hiatus, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: The events preceding the Great Hiatus and later the heartfelt reunion with Sherlock Holmes were described by Dr. Watson in his published accounts. However, as the Doctor himself admitted, for the sake of propriety, some facts had to be suppressed.





	1. SH

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fictionforlife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionforlife/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Not Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17055425) by [fictionforlife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionforlife/pseuds/fictionforlife). 



> Many, many thanks to my awesome beta, **Recently Folded**.

Sleep eludes me. In such cases I used to busy myself with chemical researches or updating my indexes or whatever past time came to mind—it’s easy to focus on the task at hand when the house and the street outside are perfectly quiet as they can only be in the middle of the night. I used to spend nights and nights in the sitting-room while I could be in bed, embracing the sleeping John. How I reproached myself for my stupidity during those endless three years we were apart. And now, feeling his body against mine and listening to his deep breath, I wouldn’t leave our bed for the world. There is much to do in my brain-attic. I can analyse past cases and compare them with the current ones or inventory my knowledge and skills in different spheres, marking which require refreshing and which can be forgotten.

But instead, comforted by John’s scent, I let my thoughts wander, and it brings me to the time just before Moriarty’s downfall. I remember everything in minute detail. As I was drawing my net tighter around Moriarty’s organisation, I tried to involve John as little as possible, for his own safety, until he knew next to nothing about my doings. He sensed that matters were grave and remonstrated with me for overstraining myself. However, he didn’t press me on the reasons, for he is not in the habit of forcing a confidence—a trait of his which is especially dear to me.

For many months the work had been grueling as I was destroying the foundation of Moriarty’s gang brick by brick. The last cornerstone was Jelland, the most ingenious forger in Europe, who managed to run his business in the heart of London, keeping the Yard none the wiser and flooding the City with counterfeit banknotes. Over the previous five years I had cut off other sources of the gang’s financial supply such as the frauds of Baron Maupertius or Milverton’s blackmail schemes, as well as the failed bank robbery John described in ‘The Red-Headed League’. But Jelland was a crucial figure, for Moriarty had made one little slip and through that slip his connection to Jelland could be traced unmistakably.

I had given Lestrade all leads to Jelland’s clandestine money-printing workshop, so one chilly night in the beginning of April the police raided it and arrested everyone there, including Jelland himself. When the handcuffs clicked on Jelland’s wrists, his usual poise was gone and his cadaverous, pointed face was contorted in impotent rage.

“You’ll be sorry soon,” he hissed, scowling at me. “You and your Mary-Ann, you bugger.”

“Shut up or you’ll be sorry right now,” Lestrade barked.

The constables lead Jelland away; Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. Bless him, his respect for the good doctor and myself would not allow him to even consider that the rumours might have a foundation. Up to this day rumours remain merely rumours. No one has any proof.

The threat left me with a heavy feeling, however. Having started the fight against Moriarty, I had since then been aware of the danger it entailed for John. The Professor wouldn’t have had any scruples about hurting him to bring me down. The way matters stood, it was only a question of time.

I returned home, resolved that countermeasures had to be taken urgently. John was in the sitting-room, ensconced in his armchair and wrapped in his maroon dressing-gown, a yellow-backed novel in his hands—a sight for sore eyes after a long day. The moment I entered, he started fussing over me, saying that I looked exhausted. I didn’t have much appetite but humoured him by taking a cup of tea and a sandwich.

“A Turkish bath would do you good,” John said, gazing at me with concern. “Let’s go this weekend? I can reserve our private rooms.”

“No, no Turkish bath at present,” I replied. “We have to be extra careful with that kind of thing.”

“It’s him, that mastermind you’re after, isn’t it,” John said grimly; it was not a question.

I nodded.

“Very well, we shall make do with our excellent home-made article.” He rose to his feet. “Come, darling, let me help.”

We went to the bathroom where he prepared for me a hot bath with essential oils. He undressed me, and I submitted myself to his ministrations, for he enjoyed it as much as I did. When we settled in the bath, he washed me thoroughly, lovingly. His hands almost made me forget the problems which weighed on my mind, yet I had to stay alert.

“John, my work should be completed by May,” I said, focusing after a momentary relapse. “The closer I get to them, the more dangerous it is for those dearest to me. This flat is becoming unsafe, so I have already made some provisions. Mrs. Hudson shall visit her sister in Kent, and Jenny and Billy shall have leave for a fortnight. You shall move to Mycroft’s, for his rooms are under government protection, and you shall keep your revolver with you at all times.”

“That serious, eh?” John muttered. “What about your documents?”

“Everything important is in my bank vaults.”

“Can I be of any assistance to you?”

“Yes, if you do as I say. Otherwise, I’m afraid, you will only be in the way.”

John sighed, his fingers trailing caresses along my spine.

“When shall I move out?” he asked in a sad, resigned voice.

“Tomorrow.”

“Then let’s not think about it until tomorrow.”

He embraced fiercely me and kissed my nape. He was right: we could benefit from a few hours of distraction. Having finished with our ablutions, we ascended to the bedroom and gave free rein to our desires. As soon as we got between the sheets, I was on my back, and he took me again and again during the night. Then, curled into him, I slept like I hadn’t done for a long while.

The next day, having tracked down Jelland’s associate, who was the link between the notorious forger and the Professor, I made sure that the Yard wouldn’t lose the trail. Everything went as smoothly as I had predicted, so I was free by late afternoon in time for the appointment with Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. John was to join us there upon completing his rounds; his valise had already been packed since morning.

“I’m intrigued by the prospect of observing your Watson as a flatmate,” Mycroft said as we sat smoking in the Stranger’s Room.

“And he will be observing you in your _sanctum sanctorum_ ,” I replied matter-of-factly. Mycroft’s curiosity was somewhat invasive, but John’s well-being was more important.

“Anything to indulge my little brother,” Mycroft said, chuckling. “It should be amusing so long as he doesn’t write about my rooms.”

“I almost regret clashing with Moriarty,” I admitted.

“You would never have been able to resist the temptation,” Mycroft replied. “The man’s mind is a work of art.”

“You wouldn’t bestir yourself, though, until it became a matter of national security.”

“Until then it was hardly my business, my dear boy. And it quite bothers me that our best agents are no match for this grey cardinal.”

I glanced at my watch: John was half an hour late. This wasn’t typical of him at all, considering his military punctuality. Had he been detained by a patient, he would’ve sent a note. But perhaps there were no spare servants in the house to do the task or perhaps the patient’s condition was so grave he lost track of time. In spite of the many possible explanations which it was easy to imagine, a vague sense of foreboding seized me. Mycroft regarded me with a slightly raised eyebrow, saying nothing. He had never approved of my ‘getting attached’ as he called it, but wisely kept his opinion to himself.

I suppressed an urge to jump to my feet and pace about the room. We smoked in silence for a while, minutes dragging by agonisingly, and then, at last, the sound of brisk steps came from the hall. I quietly drew a relieved breath, for I would recognise that gait any time, anywhere.

John entered, appearing his usual self at a cursory glance, but within a few seconds it was obvious that something was amiss. There was a glint of recent agitation in his eyes; a thin reddish welt on his neck was half-hidden under his collar; he wore a different coat from that he had donned in the morning; he held his valise in his left hand; and bandages on his right wrist were peeking from his sleeve.

“Good heavens, you were assaulted!” I gasped, dashing to him.

“By at least two men,” Mycroft added from the sofa.

“They must have been following me as I was walking back to Baker Street. Taunton Mews is often deserted even in broad daylight, so they took advantage of that,” John said.

“You’re injured.” I reached out for his right arm.

“It’s just a superficial cut. My new coat and my jacket are ruined, though,” he grumbled.

“Pray sit down, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft motioned him to the nearest armchair.

“What did they look like?” I asked, pouring John some brandy.

John seated himself, dropped his valise by the armchair, and accepted the glass from me with a nod of thanks.

“Middle-sized, shabbily dressed fellows,” he replied. “The one with the knife was rather swarthy with an earring in his left ear. The one who tried to strangle me from behind had a scar across his jaw.”

“Fenton the cut-throat and Parker the garroter,” I said, frowning, having recognised the description of the gang’s henchmen. “It would be prudent if you took some time off from your work.”

“Absolutely not. It’s already enough that I have to leave our flat.”

“They’ll keep on trying.”

“Well, I broke the nose of that Fenton fellow and dislocated the arm of the garroter, so they are welcome to send others.”

“More likely they will choose a different way,” Mycroft said thoughtfully.

John gave me a long, intense gaze—he clearly realised that there had been attempts on my life as well and that I hadn’t told him about it. I covered his hand with mine in a promise to be cautious and imploring him to do the same.

A week passed in the calm before the storm. John avoided going about on foot, especially in the less safe areas of the city. A trusted cabby drove him wherever he needed. I stayed in my various refuges while our Baker Street flat was empty. The Irregulars watched over it from the outside but noticed nothing unusual. That week was busy, for I had learned that Moriarty was planning to eliminate Lord Knightsborough, the judge appointed to preside at Jelland’s trial. Lord Knightsborough was one of the few judges who wouldn’t be intimidated by Moriarty’s connections and hence wouldn’t give him a chance to slip away from answering to the law.

The assassination was to have been disguised as a domestic accident—a gas explosion in Lord Knightsborough’s study. A maid had been bribed to tamper with the gas jet nearest to the desk when she was cleaning the study in the morning so that the judge would be killed at night, having returned from work and staying up late as was his wont. Posing as Lord Knightsborough’s new valet, I arranged capture of the maid red-handed, and by noon the operation was neatly finished. As the police were leaving with the apprehended maid, a newspaper boy ran up to me.

“A message for you, sir, from that gent over there,” the boy said, pointing at the passing four-wheeler behind which Parker was perched on the footboard, sneering. “You prevented this mishap, but what about the other?”

The other. My blood ran cold in my veins. It could only be about John. Somehow my instincts told me that it was not Mycroft’s rooms in Pall Mall or a patient’s house. I hailed a cab and rushed to Paddington. Driving up to John’s surgery, I was horrified when I saw black smoke billowing out of the broken window, shards of glass strewn on the ground below. On a bleak, foggy day lighting indoors was necessary, which had enabled the gang to use the same plan here. The servants I had selected personally, so the culprit must have been a patient.

I paid the cabby and sprang out of the hansom the moment it stopped. My heart hammered wildly as I ran up the front steps, pushed open the door, and made for the consulting-room through the smoke-filled corridor. From its opposite end John was hurrying to the consulting-room too, carrying a bucket of water.

“Holmes?” he cried, eyes wide.

“Jo—Watson!” I exclaimed, having forgotten myself momentarily in my tremendous relief that he was unharmed.

“I’ve just turned off the gas. Quick, to the scullery! Help Lucy fetch more water!”

I complied, and in a few minutes the three of us had extinguished the fire. The consulting-room which John had furnished with such care was a sorry sight: the area around the desk was damaged most—documents, books, the curtains, the chair, the carpet—all burnt and dripping wet. From the wall hung the mangled remains of the chandelier which would have been on the level exactly above John’s head had he sat behind his desk at the moment of the explosion.

Having opened the windows and sent the maid for the charwoman, John heaved a weary sigh. Now that we were alone, his shoulders drooped. He started to shake slightly—echoes of Maiwand still affected him even after eleven years.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, unable to look him in the eye.

“It’s fine. I was fortunate to have been out of the room,” he replied.

“Who visited you? Not a regular patient?”

“No. A respectable-looking gentleman with a severe bout of asthma came in, saying he’d forgotten his medicine at home. He stayed in the consulting-room while I went to the dispensary. When I came back, there was no one here. I was heading outside to search for him in the street, and then it happened.”

I couldn’t hold back any longer and embraced him—it had been an extremely narrow escape.

“I suppose I’ll follow your advice and take some time off, since my consulting-room is a mess anyway,” John said with a dry chuckle.

And so he did, leading a rather retired life during the remaining week until Jelland’s trial. At least he was relatively safe in his temporary lodgings. I kept an eye on Lord Knightsborough and ostensibly returned to Baker Street, to draw the gang’s attention from John to myself. It was a mark of how desperate the situation was for Moriarty when he called on me and tried to warn me off. After our conversation it became obvious that the Professor would revert to equally desperate measures to kill me. The finesse of his schemes was replaced by brutal force: instead of intricately staged ‘accidents’ it was now bludgeon-men and air-guns. He had stopped caring altogether about disguising his intentions.

At that point I decided that the most sensible course of action would be to get away to the Continent with John, having left all threads in the hands of intelligence services and the police. Mycroft agreed with my plan, seeming quite relieved, for he preferred to have his den to himself and putting up with someone else for a week had been grating on his nerves.

“You shall have to arrange one of those private carriages for John and to ensure that he is delivered to Victoria Station. Do it personally,” I said.

“First I am sharing my rooms. Now I am to act as your sweetheart’s coachman?” Mycroft retorted.

In spite of his disgruntled mood, Mycroft considerately remained at the Diogenes Club while I went to see John through the secret underground tunnel which led to Mycroft’s flat in Pall Mall, across the street. It has always been a special pleasure to surprise John. The expression on his face was priceless when I walked into the drawing-room, with no sound from either the front door or the back-door. The next moment I was in his arms. As ever, being apart and worrying about each other had the predictable effect on us. We discussed our impromptu continental holiday somewhat later, in bed.

“Spend the night here, Sherlock,” John pleaded.

“Out of the question,” I replied, getting dressed. “I must send them off on the wrong track. Otherwise they will be at Victoria before us and we won’t be able to board the train.”

That night, I did all I could to fool them. The gang tried to burn down the Baker Street flat, thinking that I was at home, asleep. By morning the incident was in every paper and there was just enough time to depart. True to his word, Mycroft had accompanied John in a carriage provided by the government. It took John several minutes to recognise me in my disguise of an elderly Italian priest. He didn’t turn a hair, and together we put on a nice show of misunderstanding in front of a porter. Moriarty’s henchmen arrived when the train was already moving. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the Professor himself was probably on his way to the Continent as well. The news of the arson attack on our Baker Street rooms appalled John, but I assured him that Mycroft would deal with the matter and Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t bear any expenses.

By alighting at Canterbury we got rid of our chasers and from there traveled onward through Europe incognito, as discreetly as possible. On the day of the trial, however, I received a message from Mycroft. My worst apprehensions were fulfilled: Moriarty had escaped. On the one hand, it would be logical for him to try to salvage the remains of his organisation abroad. On the other, knowing his personality, he was sure to have his revenge upon me first.

“We must split, John,” I said as we sat in our suite in Strasbourg. “You go to Baden or Karlsruhe, and I shall proceed on to Geneva.”

John stared at me indignantly, having understood at once that I intended to continue the travel under my real identity, acting as bait.

“Don’t you dare,” he replied, his tone quiet with suppressed emotion.

“It’s me he is after and he won’t spend additional energy on the run. You have always deferred to my good judgement,” I insisted.

“Not this time. I’m not leaving you.”

We argued for half an hour and nearly had a row, but it was impossible to persuade John. He stood his ground in spite of all my reasoning. Finally we decided to carry on as we had planned before and explore Switzerland. It struck me that over the years together we had never had such an extended holiday, enjoying unlimited time in each other’s company and a foreign country. We admired the sights, savoured local delicacies, rested, and made love. Everything was perfect except for the constant fear I had for John. Signs of Moriarty’s presence were reported just a step behind wherever we went.

On the evening of May 3d we arrived at Meiringen, a picturesque village where I’d hoped we could spend a few days in peace. We had barely been ushered to our hotel rooms, however, when the landlord came and said that there was a telephone call for me. It was an ominous sign, for I didn’t regularly keep Mycroft appraised of our whereabouts. Careful not to show my anxiety, I asked if I could take the call in a private place. The landlord graciously offered his study.

“Have you unpacked your bags already, Holmes?” asked the voice I had expected to hear at the other end of the line. “You should run. Save yourself and your lover… for at least a short while.”

Moriarty clearly wanted to instill dread by informing me of his proximity. Instead of a sudden and deadly move he was playing a cat-and-mouse game. Fleeing in panic would be indulging him, and that I wasn’t going to do.

“Since you know where I am, shall we settle the matters between us once and for all?” said I.

“A duel?” Moriarty drawled with cold amusement.

“If you will. On one condition.”

“Very well, the doctor shall be spared.”

“Then I am ready whenever you are.”

No reply followed, and the connection was terminated. In a sense I was glad: the Professor was the kind of a man whose word wasn’t to be doubted. If he said he would leave John alone, so it would be. Although I wouldn’t hesitate to give my life for John’s safety, I wasn’t keen on dying—it would break John’s heart. Being proud of his ancient lineage, Moriarty was fond of old-fashioned ways. Most likely, he would arrange a rendezvous indeed quite similar to a duel, but away from onlookers. I would have to improvise on the spot. Alas, the odds would be not in my favour.

“What news from Mycroft?” John asked when I returned to our suite.

“His men have some progress in catching the big fish,” I lied.

“Capital!” John said, beaming. “This mad race will come to an end at last?”

“Yes,” I replied, and it was the truth.

That night, as we loved each other, I committed to memory each precious moment we shared, every little detail about my John that I would keep in my heart, facing the inevitable. In the early dawn I watched him sleep and thanked Heaven for the great gift of having met him.

We had a wonderful, lazy morning admiring the view of the mountains from the hotel veranda. I was waiting for a sign from my opponent, but there seemed to be none. No one approached me and no message was delivered. Therefore, I decided to take the next step by continuing the journey to Rosenlaui, a neighbouring village over the hills. Although a little surprised by the change in plans, John didn’t object. The landlord was especially insistent in suggesting that we visit the Reichenbach Falls on our way there. His fervour caught my attention—he might be assisting Moriarty, wittingly or unwittingly.

The Falls were indeed quite impressive. The roar of its torrents would swallow any screams, and the precipitous path which led to it would permit disposal of a body in a most efficient manner. When a Swiss lad overtook us with a written request for John to return to the hotel to attend to an ailing English lady, I became certain. The staging was impeccable, the signature style of the masterful hand. So I released John to hasten back.

“Be safe, my darling,” I said in my thoughts, gazing after him.

One thing occurred to me in the moment. I had rarely, if ever, told John I loved him. For some irrational reason I had been afraid that if I did so, we would part. And there I was, standing on the edge of an abyss, resigned that I had probably seen him for the last time in this life. How foolish I had been.

I might still have a chance to rectify my lack of assurance, and for that I had to stay alive. I examined my surroundings, searching for anything I could turn to my favour, any point of advantage. Under the edge of the cliff there was a small ledge where it might be theoretically possible to cling and hide, albeit a refuge that would require considerable dexterity, effort, and luck to utilise.

As soon as the idea had crossed my mind, I felt someone’s presence behind me and turned around. Moriarty stood on the path, barring my way of retreat.

“Checkmate, Holmes,” he said, his bleak grey eyes lighting up triumphantly. “Your weapons won’t help you.”

He gestured across the path, at a vantage point where Colonel Moran stood with his rifle at the ready. Indeed, there would be no time to draw the pistol from my pocket or the knife from my boot.

“It shall not be a duel, but an execution,” Moriarty continued. “Your life for Watson’s, as you proposed.”

“Let me write him a farewell note,” I asked.

Moriarty laughed, gave me a contemptuous look, and waved his hand.

I took out my notebook and started to write, considering my options. There weren’t many: I had a chance only by engaging Moriarty in hand-to-hand combat, so that Moran couldn’t shoot. Then perhaps I would manage to use my weapons.

Having finished my message to John, I tore out the pages and put my cigarette-case over them on the rock beside which I had left my Alpine-stock.

“It was a worthy match, but you’re dying in vain,” Moriarty sneered. “You think you destroyed my organisation? Why, it was just the tip of the ice—”

I lunged at Moriarty, cutting off his tirade. We wrestled furiously: his grip was vise-like and his strength equalled mine. He tried to snatch the pistol from my pocket, and as I thwarted his attempts, we drew closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. The raging stream was surrounded by mist, countless tiny droplets soaking our hair, our faces, our clothes. Locked in a clinch, we grappled, balancing on the slippery path. When Moran’s bullet whistled past my head, I dodged instinctively. At the same instant Moriarty attacked again. The momentum sent us hurtling onto the ground and we tumbled over the edge. I grasped the sharp rocks, but Moriarty was a heavy burden and so we were sliding down fast. He started trying to climb up, clinging to my shoulders and pushing me into the abyss. My bleeding hands would soon give way. I kicked him with all my might until he let go and fell, screaming. Before my fingers lost their grip entirely, I directed my body towards the ledge I had noticed. The impact knocked the breath out of me and bruised my side badly. Yet I survived.

Exhausted, I gazed down into the swirling waters which had swallowed Moriarty and become his grave. My nemesis was dead but the game was far from being over. He had boasted that his organisation had not yet been defeated, and I was inclined to believe him. Moran would surely contact the rest of the gang and perhaps they would become less discreet with me seemingly out of the picture. There was yet another reason to postpone my resurrection: were I to reappear, John would be targeted again.

Pondering all of this, I waited and looked about in search of ways to retreat. Small cracks in the cliff could serve as footholds, and further on it was possible to reach another path that should lead into the forest.

By the time I felt rested, Moran must have departed. Soon John would return, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit there and watch him grieve—I would give myself away, which would be a death warrant for us both. So I took to my heels.

I won’t dwell on the near-misses I had whilst climbing down. It was a messy and rather unpleasant affair. It will suffice to say that I made it, more or less uninjured. In the forest I found a brook, brought my appearance into order as much as was possible, and carefully proceeded to the station. In the shop by the station I purchased a cloak and hat which helped me to disguise myself a bit. After that, I boarded the train to Bern where I knew one of Mycroft’s agents resided on a permanent basis.

By that evening, I already had new documents and was telephoning Mycroft from a safe flat. The news of my demise had reached him an hour before, and he had rarely shown himself as emotional as when he received my call.

“My God, it’s you… it’s you!” he cried, and I could hear tremors in his voice.

“It’s not actually that easy to get rid of me,” I replied.

My brother laughed heartily, for another brief moment allowing his heart to govern his mind, but then his feelings were quickly subdued by the reason which he so valued.

“If you have called me via this channel, it must mean that there are some complications,” he continued in a calmer manner.

For safety reasons we couldn’t address each other by names or discuss details.

“Yes, the work is only half-done.”

“In this case you shall have all necessary support.”

“Tell _him_ ,” I said pointedly. “As soon as _he_ is back, tell _him_.”

“Do not concern yourself with that,” Mycroft said, and I hung up.

The thought of the anguish John was being subjected to was gnawing at me, but approaching him in any way other than through Mycroft would be disastrous. At least upon his return to England John would be informed that I was alive—and that was a consolation of sorts.

As I had predicted, after the events at the Reichenbach Falls Moriarty’s organisation was like an agitated wasps’ nest. Its true scale turned out to be appalling: its tentacles stretched throughout Europe, reaching India and crossing the Atlantic. To my dismay, I realised that it would take me a substantial amount of time to put an end to it, even with the help of Mycroft’s agents. I flung myself into work, for the more effective I could be, the sooner I would be reunited with my John.

Newspapers were full of sensational headings about the encounter between Moriarty and myself, albeit all referring to the Reuter’s short dispatch which in turn cited the local Swiss paper almost verbatim. Thankfully, no one seemed to know the real circumstances. Mycroft provided me with finances and other means, so I carried on, deeply under cover, arranging subversive activities against the syndicate.

Within four weeks I was in France, tidying up any threads I had missed. There wasn’t a day when I didn’t think about John. I would see him in my dreams, reaching out to me, his lips moving, but his words carried away by the wind. Upon waking I would feel that something was wrong, very wrong. The feeling grew more and more insistent until I was unable to go on in ignorance. Rather than asking Mycroft, I used one of my own connections to bring me a person who would definitely know how John had been faring.

Wiggins was delivered fast asleep to a small, nondescript house in the dock district of Calais. A potent soporific had been slipped into his beer, but its effects were to be wearing off by that time. I regarded the sturdy young man for a few moments, reminiscing on the days when he had been a gangly, always hungry imp, the first Irregular who later helped to build that formidable street squad. His leadership skills and shrewdness had stayed with him—now, at twenty-three, he worked as a shipyard foreman, had made a good name for himself, and was already happily married and raising two children.

I slapped him on the cheeks lightly to bring him to his senses. Wiggins grunted with displeasure, stirred, and nearly fell from the chair he had been deposited on. His eyes flew open; cursing, he sat upright and blinked like an owl. As his gaze regained its focus and halted upon me, Wiggins gave a violent start.

“Blimey,” he gasped. “Mr. ‘ol—”

“Be quiet,” I interrupted him. “There are reasons for this. Just answer when I ask you.”

Wiggins nodded earnestly, pinched himself hard on the back of his hand, and hissed in pain.

“Dr. Watson, is he well?”

“Not really, no, sir. At the memorial service ‘e was terrifyin’ to look upon, so pale I thought ‘e was ‘bout to faint. Then I’ve been to Mrs. ‘udson’s. She said ‘e was drinkin’ loike a fish, shut in upstairs. Quit makin’ ‘is rounds—‘is colleague takes care of ‘is patients. The boys ‘eard that ‘e thrashed a reporter who followed ‘im, and Inspector Lestrade hushed it up.”

The cold struck through my heart. For an instant everything swam in front of my eyes. My poor John. His reaction was far more severe than I had imagined.

“That will be all,” I said, my voice sounding surprisingly level. “By morning you shall be back in London. For your own and your family’s safety, do not contact Dr. Watson. I shall do that myself. Carry on as you were. Consider this just a dream after a merry Saturday night at the Green Dragon.”

Wiggins assured me he wouldn’t tell a soul and didn’t object to being driven to the station blindfolded. Alone in the room again, I sank down onto the chair. What exactly had transpired between Mycroft and John if John had reacted in that fashion? Or what if Mycroft had disregarded my request? I needed to _see_ Mycroft, for it was nothing to deal with by telephone.

So I summoned him and he was unable to refuse. We met in the morning in the comfortable hotel room he had settled into upon arriving. Mycroft glared at me, miffed by the lack of sleep.

“Mycroft, a little bird told me that John has been drinking,” I said.

“Well, perhaps it’s his coping method. He’ll come around.” Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, helping himself to fresh coffee and croissants.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Of course, Mycroft didn’t think much of John, considering him merely an indulgence of my baser needs, a pretty face. He hadn’t expected our relationship to last and hadn’t met John until we had been together for several years. Yet cruelty wasn’t in my brother’s nature.

“His coping method? You… you brute!” I cried, tempted to tear the coffee-cup from Mycroft and smash it.

“Tut, tut,” Mycroft replied in that infuriatingly dispassionate tone of his, so familiar to me since my childhood. “The doctor’s grief is safer for you both and most convincing for others. He burned your will in the presence of the solicitor, by the way. Said he didn’t want anything in benefit from it and that he would rather your possessions went to me.”

“Damn you, Mycroft! Drink will ruin him! It runs in his family!”

“Why would you do such a stupid thing as falling in love again? The first time—with that university fellow—didn’t teach you a thing.”

“John is the best part of my life.” I breathed in and out, calming myself. “But you’re the one who considers feelings a weakness. You saw how broken _Papa_ was after _Mama_ ’s passing, and you vowed never to be so vulnerable, didn’t you? You’ve never been intimate with anyone.”

“Oh please,” Mycroft snorted. “I’ve had enough of it—women, men—bah.”

“I mean true closeness, not just that.” I sprang to my feet. “By Jove, I’m going to London.”

“No, you’re not,” Mycroft raised his voice at last, but I didn’t care.

I was already at the door when he added hastily, “Very well, I’ll let him know. You have my word. Tomorrow.”

“ _Tonight_. I shall check without fail, mind you,” I warned him and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It is generally considered that Milverton’s case was well after Reichenbach, but I tend to agree with the Lenfilm version because there are some hints in the Canon which support [this theory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799059/chapters/39430477).
> 
> **Judging by the discussion Holmes and Watson had in VALL, Watson knew about Moriarty before FINA.


	2. JHW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With so much gratitude to **Recently Folded** for all her help and support.
> 
> Warning: heavy angst and graphic description of alcohol abuse (but things get better by the end of the chapter)

_April 30th, 1894.—_ It has been almost a month since Sherlock’s return, and we are still giddy with the joy of our reunion, not wishing to let each other out of sight for more than a few minutes. We cannot get enough of conversing as well as of sharing silence together. There is much to discuss after those three long years, but speaking is not always easy. Sherlock wants to know everything, even the harshest truth about my experiences during that period, and indeed he had told me in great detail about his own. Never before had he been so candid with me, and my heart bleeds for him—he spent those years in constant danger, battling the gruesome criminal syndicate almost single-handedly, plagued by severe bouts of black depression. Sherlock confessed that he had frequently used narcotics to keep going, but he promised from now on to give up that vice once and for all.

I wish to be as sincere with my darling. Yet when I try, I get a lump in my throat, and words won’t come out. Committing them to paper should be easier. I hadn’t kept a journal since that day at the Reichenbach Fall, but now, perhaps, it is time to resume the practice. Facing what has happened should help us both heal. 

To tell the truth, revisiting the past in my mind’s eye requires quite an effort. Sherlock deliberately misguided me when he said that Mycroft’s men were about to catch Moriarty. How naive it was of me to have believed! Knowing Sherlock, I should have realised he would do anything to keep me from harm, even including resorting to deception. 

That day at the Reichenbach Fall was the worst day of my life. Staring into that abyss had been worse than lying drenched in my own blood on the battlefield of Maiwand. Evidence left no hope, but I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—accept the obvious conclusion. Twilight was darkening as I peered beyond the edge of the cliff, calling Sherlock’s name. I shouted until I was hoarse and my voice gave out. In a dreamlike state I wandered to the boulder against which Sherlock’s Alpine-stock was propped. There I found the cigarette-case and the note, his last farewell. I read the words, yet the meaning they conveyed was too monstrous. Time simply stopped. I was in a state of absolute prostration by the time Steiler the elder arrived with some other people, apparently having been worried by my sudden appearance and departure. I don’t remember much about being accompanied back to Meiringen, although I did ask for the local police and related to them what I knew. It was already too dark to commence an official investigation, so any undertakings were postponed till morning. I slept fitfully, hoping that it all would prove to be only a nightmare.

It was not. The next morning I accompanied the police to the falls, and there we examined the place together, bit by every bit. The verdict of the official forces offered no comfort, confirming that which I had feared most. There had been a struggle, and it had been fatal for both opponents. Recovery of the bodies would not be feasible. 

I functioned as if an automaton, participating in the necessary proceedings, answering questions and so on. A local newspaper requested an interview from me, but I declined, of course. There was nothing else to be done in Meiringen. It was time to return to London.

My senses were numb. I had lost the ability to feel or think and merely drifted along. Boarding the train and travelling without Sherlock wasn’t right. My mind could not adjust to the reality of it. I was constantly expecting that he would come into the carriage, maybe in disguise, maybe as himself, and explain that it was a part of some ingenious plan. Yet hours and hours passed, the Channel was crossed, and nothing changed. 

Upon my arrival at Victoria Station, I noticed some commotion outside even before alighting, but in my dazed state I disregarded it. The moment I stepped onto the platform, I was surrounded by a horde of journalists who shouted at the top of their voices, soliciting a commentary from me on the demise of the Great Detective. I was stopped in my tracks, not knowing what to do and how to proceed. The prompt reaction of the police provided a blessed deliverance: several constables cleared the way for me so that I could get into the cab where Lestrade was waiting, grim and sympathetic. He drove to Baker Street with me, emanating silent support, and made sure I wasn’t harassed by another crowd of reporters at the front door. I was grateful to him from the bottom of my heart.

Mrs. Hudson met me in the hall, her face drawn in anxiety and her red-rimmed eyes imploring.

“Is it true, Doctor?” she asked.

I couldn’t find the words to reply. I couldn’t say it out loud. I could not acknowledge it. She began to sob, looking at me. Unable to meet her eyes, I hurried upstairs to the sitting-room. There I dropped my belongings haphazardly and flung myself onto the sofa. So I lay, devoid of energy, for a few hours, until a gentle rapping on the door broke my reverie.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Mycroft Holmes would like to see you,” Mrs. Hudson said quietly.

I sat up, adjusting my clothes. Of course Sherlock’s brother would wish to know all the circumstances. One could expect that, and I owed it to him.

“Please show him in,” I muttered.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, put away my scattered things, and left the room. I hadn’t heard Mycroft’s carriage arrive, but there it was, once I glanced out of the window. When Mycroft Holmes entered, for a moment I reeled internally. He was dressed in sombre black. Again, that was to be expected, and yet…

His composure was impeccable. His eyes were more steely than usual, reflecting the additional self-control he exercised over his emotions. The relationship between the Holmes brothers had never been effusive. Nevertheless, they had always cared deeply for each other. 

While Mycroft listened to my stilted narrative, not a muscle moved upon his face. I forced myself to meet his piercing gaze, even though I could hardly bring myself to do it. I had failed Sherlock. I had failed to observe. I had failed to help. I was the reason Sherlock had sacrificed himself.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mycroft said dryly after I had finished. “The memorial service shall take place tomorrow at ten o’clock. I have arranged for a four-wheeler to be sent for you.”

The elder Holmes seemed to have already reconciled himself with the situation. Even in this his reason had prevailed. He took his leave, and I could only wonder what was going on in his soul. 

Mine had a gaping hole. I needed to do something which would distract me from the emptiness, at least during the daytime. Outside, the journalists had cleared off, so I decided to take advantage of that to visit Jackson, who was kindly treating my patients in my absence. 

I drove to Paddington, and when I alighted at Jackson’s doorstep, a wave of memories swept over me. Sherlock had been keenly interested in my short list of prospective practices. He had learned everything about each and accompanied me here. His approval rang in my ears, “...you got hold of a better practice than your neighbour, my boy. The steps of yours are worn three inches deeper than his.” His contented smile was bright before my eyes.

My temples throbbed; I breathed in shakily, leaning on my stick. In a few moments the wave passed, and I ascended the stairs.

“My dear fellow, please accept my deepest condolences,” Jackson said earnestly. “You don’t look yourself, which is understandable. You’ve been friends with Mr. Holmes for so many years. I prescribe you rest for as long as you need. Take good care of yourself and resume the work when you are truly ready.”

He was adamant that my first duty was to recover. Perhaps he was right: if my judgement were clouded, I could easily do more harm than good to my patients, and that would be unacceptable. 

Back at Baker Street, condolences began to arrive in heaps. The sight of black-edged envelopes piled on my desk made me sick at heart. I asked Mrs. Hudson to keep them in her parlour for the time being. She tried to cajole me into having dinner, or at least tea. From a medical point of view I understood the importance of sustenance, yet the very mention of food was repulsive.

I sat in my armchair by the fire, smoking, as the first day at home without Sherlock was drawing to a close. Our sitting-room hadn’t suffered much from the arson, and thanks to Mrs. Hudson’s endeavours, changes were hardly noticeable, although Sherlock would have begged to differ, no doubt. The cushion in his vacant armchair was rumpled, and his old clay pipe lay on the mantelpiece. His violin was in the corner, half-hidden under music sheets with an unfinished air he had been composing. Everything spoke of his presence, as if he were here, in London, and not… I sprang to my feet and paced around the room, struggling to shake off the image of the roaring stream and sharp rocks, of the smudged footsteps on the path, of the horrible, bottomless abyss. But my thoughts kept running in circles. I shouldn’t have left Sherlock there alone. I should have seen through the ruse. Or I should have insisted that he come with me. How utterly stupid and blind I had been. 

By the small hours my wounded leg—which hadn’t minded mountain hiking in Switzerland—was aching and cramping up. Somehow I found myself in Sherlock’s room. He hadn’t been sleeping there often, preferring to do so upstairs with me, but the pillow on his narrow bed still carried his scent. I must have drifted off, for it was already a bleak, grey morning when I was woken by being shaken carefully by the shoulder.

“Doctor, it’s half-past eight,” Mrs. Hudson said in a soft voice. “We are to set out in an hour. Your breakfast is on the table and your suit is in your room.”

I had no appetite, but I didn’t wish to upset her by skipping the meal she had taken pains to prepare. Then I went upstairs, and there it was, laid out on the bed, the black mourning suit. I had worn it before on several occasions, but now I had to don it for Sherlock. In spite of the dangers our lifestyle involved, I had never envisaged this. 

 _May 1st, continued._ —When the carriage arrived, I was ready, at least outwardly. The moment Mrs. Hudson and I walked out, we were accosted by a swarm of reporters. Some hailed cabs and followed the carriage to the small chapel where the service was to take place. Mycroft Holmes must have foreseen such a development: at the chapel’s gate plainclothes policemen barred the vultures from entering the consecrated ground. 

There would be no empty grave; only a prayer recited by the priest in the circle of the closest. Besides Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and myself, there were Lestrade and Wiggins, who represented the Irregulars, being their very first chief.

As the priest spoke of Sherlock’s life and what he meant to everyone present, the horrible reality of it all finally caught up with me. My beloved was no more. I would never see him again in this world. That standard, trite formula, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” infuriated me. Sherlock was denied even a proper burial and would stay forever in the cold, foreign waters. 

Why was I living and breathing? What for? After Maiwand he had helped me to find an answer, but now he was gone, gone. He had done it out of love. I may have returned home, but my heart remained at those wretched falls. And what was home without him?

There was no sense in the usual course of things anymore. My practice which I had struggled to buy first and then to develop was but a shell of normalcy now, a veneer to maintain. My writing? Pointless. The lights had gone out in my life.

When the service was over and the priest departed, we stood in silence for a while. Wiggins sniffed quietly, looking very young without his cheeriness and confidence—a bereft child once again. Lestrade’s brow was furrowed and his jaw set; the captured members of Moriarty’s organisation would surely get what they deserved. Mrs. Hudson was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, her lips trembling. The mourning crape made her seem small and frail, but she strove to keep her posture straight. Wiggins accompanied her towards the exit, and Lestrade led the way to shield her from the pestilent reporters.

Mycroft Holmes was inscrutable as he ever was.

“Dr. Watson,” he said. “There is one more thing to be finalised. If you would come with me to the solicitor’s office to hear out Sherlock’s will?”

“Yes,” I murmured. “Yes, of course.”

I had never had any resentment towards Mycroft, but at that moment I did. I loathed his business-like tone and his cold aloofness which didn’t differ from his usual bearing in the slightest. If he was hiding his grief, he was doing very well indeed, for there was no sign of it. His younger brother was dead, and the man was left alone in the whole world, for God’s sake! His conduct convinced me that whatever nonsense I had written about Sherlock’s being an emotionless machine, it was actually true about Mycroft Holmes. While Sherlock had merely taken on that mantle to protect himself, Mycroft seemed truly heartless.

We arrived at an imposing solicitor practice in the City. Numerous clerks were bustling about in a large, crowded office. The choice of place was strange for such an intimate matter, especially considering how particular the Holmes brothers were in terms of privacy. I could feel sidelong stares and hear hushed whispers as we headed to one of the meeting-rooms. It turned my stomach, but I marched on, trying to preserve my composure. Mycroft was so much better at that.

A brisk middle-aged fellow greeted us in the meeting-room. I don’t quite recall his name or appearance, except for the grating voice in which he read the will. Mycroft was to receive half of Sherlock’s worldly goods, and I the other half. It was a considerable sum. Sherlock and I had been saving for a country house where we could spend weekends in leisure. Now it was not to be. I didn’t need the money. I needed Sherlock back at my side.

Blood rushing in my ears, I rose, snatched the will from the desk, and strode to the fireplace. The solicitor watched me startled and confused while Mycroft was… intrigued.

“I shall not benefit from this,” I said, hurling the paper into the grate. “It will be better if everything goes to next of kin.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. The solicitor continued to stare at me. The thought of remaining there was unbearable, so I turned on my heel and left. I all but ran through the office, not caring what the clerks might think. Thankfully, a cab was outside right at the curb. A tide of emotions within my chest was on the verge of spilling over. It was imperative to reach home before the dam broke.

I could barely hold back during the ride to Baker Street, and as soon as the cab came to a halt, I shoved money to the cabby rather unceremoniously and dashed into the house. The moment the front door slammed behind me, tears blurred my vision. I could feel them hot on my cheeks as I bolted up the stairs into the sitting-room. There I collapsed into my armchair, sobs shaking my entire body. I wept uncontrollably the way I had never done before—not even when I had been too late to attend to my mother’s illness or when I had failed to shoot myself at the battlefield, wounded and helpless. 

I cursed Moriarty and his gang and my own stupidity. I pleaded with God for a miracle, that He in His mercy would return Sherlock to me alive and well. But neither prayer, tears, nor curses could undo the past and mend the present. The present was beyond any hope of mending. The only thing for incurable cases such as this would be anaesthesia. 

Having battled with Sherlock’s affliction for years, I wouldn’t touch morphine. The spirit case in the corner would serve the purpose. Something stronger than brandy would be necessary. I poured myself a full glass of whisky, not bothering to add soda into it. My throat burned; the heat spreading in my stomach was bringing no relief. I drank more and more whisky, vaguely aware of a salty tang upon my lips. My face was wet. I drank until the bottle slipped from my limp fingers and rattled on the floor, empty. The room swam in front of my eyes. Heavy lassitude crashed down on me. I welcomed it, falling into the darkness, an abyss of my own from which I did not wish to return. 

Some hours must have passed. It was a sense of terrible nausea that brought me to consciousness. I rose, tore off the collar which was smothering me, and staggered to the water closet. My legs gave out in front of the lavatory. My knees painfully hit the tiled floor. I hadn’t had any food since morning, so what came up was mostly bile. I hadn’t been that sick for over ten years, not since the time before meeting Sherlock, when I had been adrift and alone. Now I was adrift and alone again.

My interview with the lavatory finished, I was too exhausted to walk. I crawled back to the sitting-room on all fours, hoping that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t see me. It took the remains of my energy to climb onto the sofa, and then I remembered no more.

 _May 2nd, continued._ —The following days turned into a single blur. I didn’t notice time in my drunken stupor. The long-suffering, dear Mrs. Hudson pleaded with me to eat, as my mother used to plead with my father during his sessions. 

I didn’t enjoy drinking in the slightest. Quite the contrary, my body rebelled against it. But physical indisposition was a passable distraction from the wretched, hateful reality. Eventually the spirit case ran dry, and I continued on drinking my way through anything that contained alcohol. I knew what degradation it would entail. At last I understood my brother, how he felt, having lost his beloved wife and newborn son. Henry’s appalling conduct made perfect sense now. Perhaps he could have pulled himself together and moved on, being reasonable. Only he hadn’t wished to. Neither did I.

One morning I woke up to loud voices somewhere near me. There was also furious rustling of papers mingled with stomping around the room. 

“Whatever is the matter?” I croaked, rubbing my eyes.

Billy stopped abruptly and flung up his arms, his face livid. Mrs. Hudson tossed off the newspaper she had been reading and sank into the chair beside the table. Jenny stuck the mop so violently into the bucket that some water splashed over the brim.

“It’s Colonel Moriarty, sir,” she said, her voice tense with suppressed anger.

“The blackguard,” Billy hissed.

“Colonel—” I repeated blankly, sitting up and wincing at the headache.

“The Professor’s younger brother now slanders Mr. Holmes in every paper,” Mrs. Hudson said with a tired sigh.

“What!”

I snatched the _Times_ from the floor, ignoring a vicious stab of pain in my temples. It is not worth quoting here what Colonel Moriarty wrote. His shameless lies and outrageous distortion of facts fill me with disgust to this day. My mind cleared even as I was halfway through. A refutation was in order. I sat at my desk immediately. Seldom had words flown so swiftly from under my pen—memories which I had striven to drown in alcohol flashed before my eyes in sharpest detail. In less than two hours I had finished. 

The article was dispatched with Billy to the _Times_ editor, and the next day it was on the front page. Meanwhile I needed to black out again, to be rid of the thoughts swarming in my head. But it turned out that I had accomplished the feat of depleting all reserves of alcohol in the house. I rang the bell and asked Mrs. Hudson to send Jenny for replenishment.

“I respectfully decline, Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson said, returning my sovereign. “You are ruining yourself. Mr. Holmes—”

“Mr. Holmes is not with us anymore,” I interrupted her and rose to get dressed.

She shook her head as I passed her on my way out. Her disapproval would not dissuade me, although I knew how distressed she was. It reminded me of my brother again—reasoning with him had been useless. 

The twilight had already closed in, and the still busy street was lit by the yellow glow of lamps. I drew down my hat and turned up my collar to avoid being recognised, but apparently an especially pertinacious reporter had been watching the house. He called after me as I walked. When I quickened my pace, he followed me and caught me by the sleeve.

“Dr. Watson, just a brief statement,” the rascal cajoled.

“Will you please go away,” I said, wrenching my arm free from his grasp.

“Mr. Holmes’s name is being dragged through the mud, and you don’t care?”

I whirled around to have a look at him. There was a predatory glint in the fellow’s sly eyes, his face expectant. He was clearly pleased that his words had affected me. I didn’t realise at first that the snarl I heard was mine as I sprang forward. The first blow felled him, and then I was beating him black and blue. His attempts to shield himself only incensed me further. I would have done him grave injury, had it not been for the police. A deafeningly shrill whistle rang across the street, and in a few moments two sets of hands were pulling me away from the reporter.

We were taken to the nearest police station and thrown into separate cells for disorderly behaviour. The reporter was protesting vehemently, saying that I had assaulted him. I didn’t counter his claim, for it was the truth. My knuckles were bloodied and sore. My head was splitting, as if it was I who had received the blows and not the other way around.

An hour later the lock in the heavy door of my cell clicked, and Lestrade came in.

“Good God, Dr. Watson,” he said.

I failed to reply, mortified by his crestfallen, pitying expression.

“There’s a cab waiting,” Lestrade continued after an awkward pause. “You are free to go.”

“What about the reporter?” I asked.

“This time no charges will be pressed, and there will be no trouble. But you have to be careful. These vultures only profit from such kind of thing.”

I nodded, pressing Lestrade’s hand in silent gratitude.

221b was within walking distance from the police station, but evidently Lestrade wished to ensure that I stayed out of trouble, so he drove me home and handed me over to an appalled Mrs. Hudson. I ascended the stairs as they were conversing in hushed tones in Mrs. Hudson’s parlour. 

My feet brought me to Sherlock’s room again of their own accord. His mouse-coloured dressing-gown hung on the peg beside the door. I reached out and caressed the tattered fabric. Pictures of criminals adorning the walls, a dark lantern on the side-table, the tin box containing notes of Sherlock’s early cases—each item brought up unbidden recollections of the happy time. Even when we had quarreled, it had been a happy time. The future ahead was bleak. 

It occured to me that Sherlock’s room was the last place in the house I hadn’t searched for alcohol. If he had such a storage, the wardrobe would be the main suspect. I examined the shelves, revolted with myself, yet in a state of some morbid excitement. My hypothesis proved to be correct: there, in the depth, amidst wigs, strange costumes, and regular clothes, a bottle of absinthe was stuck into an old boot. I laughed out loud—my Holmes, a Bohemian soul through and through.

He must have had somewhere an absinthe spoon too, but I didn’t look for it. I didn’t even look for a glass. The bittersweet, fragrant taste of the green fairy overwhelmed my senses. The surroundings grew warmer and warmer, and then it was so hot that I began to sweat. 

The scorching Afghan sun was ruthless. The supplies were out; the retreat had already begun, haphazard and ugly. I couldn’t dwell on it, for I had a patient to attend to. The poor fellow’s chest was badly mangled by a Jezail bullet, and he had lost a copious amount of blood, lying on the stretcher at the side of the road, abandoned to his fate by those who had been carrying him.

I managed to stop the bleeding and was dressing the wound.

“Don’t waste time, go. They’re near,” my patient wheezed. “Put… two cartridges... into my pistol. One for the enemy. One for me.”

His long, pale fingers clutched the revolver. I lifted my gaze to the patient’s face. Ashen, his lips bluish, Sherlock smiled.

My own howl woke me. At first I was disoriented and couldn’t understand where I was, but gradually I realised that I was sitting on the floor in Sherlock’s room, propped against the wardrobe. Hurried steps approached, accompanied by the rustle of a dress.

“Dr. Watson!” Mrs. Hudson cried. “That won’t do! I shall not allow this anymore. Enough is enough.”

Her remonstrance had a sobering effect, to some extent. Our dear landlady had tolerated and forgiven much over ten years. Nevertheless, there is a limit to everything. Even with her heart of gold she would have to evict me if I didn’t stop. Therefore, leaving would be for the best. 

“First you shall wash yourself and change,” Mrs. Hudson said sternly. “Then visit the barber’s down the street. Then have breakfast. And then you are going with me, to Kent, to my sister’s.”

Her masterful tone brooked no argument. I didn’t dare to object.

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied.

With that, she left the room. Getting up required a lot of effort, for my legs seemed to be made of cotton-wool and my head was singing like a tea-kettle. I trudged to the bathroom where I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time in three weeks. I had grown quite a beard. My face was bloated and sallow, my eyes bloodshot. It was a striking resemblance with my father as I always remembered him. In appearance I took after him more than my brother, and now the image was complete.

Mrs. Hudson was right in sending me to the barber: wielding a razor with a tremor in my hands would not have been wise. My mourning attire was done in irrevocably. Wearing it could not reflect what I felt anyhow, so upon disrobing I hurled it into the corner. 

 _May 3d, continued._ —We hardly exchanged a word on our way to Kent. As soon as the train began to move, Mrs. Hudson busied herself with knitting. She looked haggard, her complexion devoid of colour, dark circles under her eyes and a deep crease between her eyebrows that hadn’t been there before. My behaviour had aggravated her own distress. With a pang of remorse I averted my gaze from her and peered out the window. The monotonous sound of the wheels lulled me to a sleep which thankfully brought no lasting dreams. 

Mrs. Hudson’s brother-in-law met us at the station with a dog-cart. Mr. Turner was an amiable rotund man in his fifties, the epitome of a hard-working English farmer. He drove us as carefully as he could, having noticed that I was unwell. When we alighted by an old but sturdy farmhouse and were ushered into a cosy drawing-room, Mrs. Turner welcomed us, as boisterous and enthusiastic as ever. 

“I have the surest remedy for you, Doctor,” she said, hurried to the kitchen, and returned with a glass of a concoction which I hadn’t encountered since leaving Edinburgh for London in my youth. 

The very sight of the Highland Fling made me cringe internally. Buttermilk mixed with corn flour, salt and pepper had always been effective only in upsetting my stomach. However, it would have been utter discourtesy to refuse a refreshment offered by the mistress of the house with such genuine concern. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, suggested that I should better rest and thus saved me from the awkward situation.

Having retired to the guest room, I thought of her and Lestrade, of their support given in spite of their own grief. Unlike ten years ago, I wasn’t completely alone after all. 

Mr. and Mrs. Turner were most considerate hosts. They didn’t force their company on me, and I kept to myself as much as I wished, occasionally lending my hand as a doctor to treat Mr. Turner’s rheumatism. Mrs. Hudson’s plan worked: visiting the nearest public-house was out of the question. For the sake of propriety, I had to stay sober until returning to London.

The house was surrounded by a beautiful orchard, well-tended and obviously cared for with love. Both spouses must have put their hearts into it. The four walls often became too oppressive, and then I would roam among the trees and flowers which were in full summer bloom. Life ebbed and flowed as if nothing had happened. Its exuberance was poignant. 

One day I was on such a ramble, when a carriage arrived at the gate and an agitated footman rushed in.

“Dr. Watson, we heard that you were here,” he said. “Sir Philip D’Aeth of Knowlton Court suddenly fell ill, and Dr. Millbank is out, making the rounds. Could you please come at once, sir?”

I agreed, intending to hand over the patient to the family physician afterwards, as professional etiquette required. Mrs. Hudson was already trotting up with my medical bag. I nodded my thanks, and off we were in an instant, rattling towards a magnificent estate which was looming in the distance.

We were there in fifteen minutes; a grim butler showed me into a luxurious study and closed the doors behind me. I expected to find the sufferer on the sofa in the centre of the room, but instead, by the fire in the armchair sat Mycroft Holmes.

He put his finger to his lips and motioned me to the opposite armchair. Bewildered, I followed his silent order. Mycroft wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to me. 

> Not a word aloud [the note ran].

I waited while he scribbled a more lengthy message. Upon reading it, I shook and clamped a hand over my mouth to suppress a gasp. Tears pricked my eyes again, my heart hammering wildly. Even now I can see a few lines of Mycroft’s smooth handwriting as if they were right before me: 

> My brother is alive. He managed to slip away at the last moment. He is working under an assumed identity, for it turned out to be only the beginning. Don’t attempt to do anything—it will ruin both him and yourself. Do not share this with anyone, including your landlady. 

Mycroft took the papers from my trembling hand, threw them into the fire, and made sure they burned completely. Then, with a curt inclination of his head, he rose and sauntered off to the adjacent room. Seconds later, from that room emerged a dashing young man who was the picture of robust health.

“Thank you for your help, Dr. Watson,” he said in a clear, ringing voice. “I am sorry for troubling you at such a trying time. My household made too much fuss about a mere summer cold.”

I declined an offer to be brought back in the carriage, for I needed to process the news in solitude. I walked to the village slowly. It is impossible to describe how profound my joy and relief were. Sherlock was alive. He was out there, somewhere. 

Providence had granted me the greatest gift imaginable. Despite having renounced religion long ago, I hadn’t renounced God. As I passed the village chapel, something came over me; I walked in and prayed, prayed as fervently as when I was a boy.

The necessity to keep Mrs. Hudson in the dark was heartbreaking. But I could see that it had to be done for her own safety too. Nevertheless, I couldn’t look her in the eye. Living at Baker Street and deceiving her would be impossible, so I decided to find other lodgings as soon as we got back to London.

During the rest of my stay at the Turners’ I pondered the next course of action. Sherlock was alone upon his quest. Considering his mood swings and his tendency to work himself into exhaustion, isolation would be very hard on him. There had to be a way of sending him a word of encouragement. 

I racked my brain for a means to accomplish it without endangering his mission. Some clandestine channels wouldn’t do: I would certainly bungle any step in that direction, for codes and ciphers were Sherlock’s forte, not mine. If I had a forte, what was it? Beside medicine, a thing that I could do relatively well was… At first the idea seemed mad. But the more I thought of it, the more it made sense.

Writing short stories instead of full-length novels would be faster and easier. I had been entertaining the possibility for a while already. Weaving a special message into the fabric of the narrative should not be very difficult. A deliberate inaccuracy in the circumstances of a case would draw his attention, and he would realise instantly the secret meaning of a phrase which for anyone else would be just a part of the story.

Thus I started writing up a remarkable case, obscuring the dates and changing the names. The Prince became a King and the actress an opera diva, but the main facts remained intact. The most blatant invention was my marriage, though. Sherlock used to be seriously annoyed by my fictional romance with the client in _The Sign of Four_. Now he knew it only served the purpose of protecting our privacy, so the mention of it would catch his eye.

> _“…I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again...”_

The first draft was ready while Mrs. Hudson and I were still in Kent. Upon returning to London, I consulted my notes and diaries and did some minor editing. There was a new popular periodical called _The Strand Magazine_ , a medium which could reach Sherlock even abroad, but before publishing the story it was vital to test whether my method wasn’t a failure. I appealed for help of the most perceptive reader that came to mind.

Mycroft Holmes agreed to receive me in the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club.

“I saw your article in the _Times_ , Doctor,” he said. “It was a rather rash step. Fortunately, it didn’t aggravate the situation, but I’m relieved that this time you had enough sense to consult me first.”

Almost gritting my teeth at his patronising tone, I handed him the manuscript of _A Scandal in Bohemia_ without a word. While he was reading it, his expression changed from tepid to interested and at some point even amused. 

“The way you obfuscate the dates is ineffective,” Mycroft remarked when he was done. “Anyone slightly observant will realise that the case took place not in 1888 but definitely before the Marriages Act of 1886 came into force. Then your supposed marriage: if memory serves, in your previous novel you state that you met your future wife in September of 1888 whereas in this story you are already married by March. Certainly that will raise some questions. There are also other details in the need of correction, but it might result in a complete rewrite and could ruin the story. At any rate, this entertaining piece of fiction shouldn’t do any harm.”

I thanked him for his valuable comments which I had no intention of heeding. He seemed to have missed my message to Sherlock, and it was all that mattered.

“Ah, and Doctor,” Mycroft Holmes called out as I turned to leave. “Regarding your recent article, you mixed up the names of the Moriarty brothers. It was the Professor who was James, not the Colonel. The younger brother is actually your namesake John.”

“My mistake,” I said with a polite nod and departed.

I couldn’t care less what Moriarty’s brother’s name was.

 _A Scandal in Bohemia_ was published on the 25th of June and immediately was a great success, even though the two earlier novel-length installments had gone mostly unnoticed. It only proved the effectiveness of the short story format. Herbert Greenhough Smith, the editor of _The Strand Magazine_ , was delighted and asked for more. 

Story after story I brought to Mycroft Holmes before sending them to _The Strand_ , and every time he would demonstrate his astuteness in everything but my secret messages. I even did correct some blunders Mycroft pointed out, for quite a few of those weren’t intentional at all and could work as misleading markers. Anyway, I had no doubt that Sherlock would understand what I wished to tell him.

> _“I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.”_
> 
> _“I shall be true. He shall find me ready when he comes back.”_

Each story had a special line for Sherlock, and I hoped it would cheer him up a little. 

As an additional safety precaution, I asked Mr. Sidney Paget, an amazingly talented illustrator, not to portray the Holmes brothers and myself with any close resemblance to the originals, having explained my request as a wish for privacy.

In the beginning of July I moved out from Baker Street to a place I found in Kensington. Mrs. Hudson accepted my decision with kind understanding, even though it visibly saddened her.

“It is probably for the better, Doctor,” she said, seeing me off. “Putting some distance between your new lodgings and Baker Street is wise. It takes time to cope. But please come visit me if you can, for I shall miss you.”

“Of course I will, Mrs. Hudson,” I assured her. “Likewise, you are welcome in my house anytime, whenever you need medical assistance or just someone to talk to.”

She sniffed and smiled, clearly trying not to cry. It cut my heart to pieces and I felt like a traitor, but I had to stay silent and deny her the comfort of the truth.

“I’ll keep an eye on you, mind.” Mrs. Hudson shook her finger. “No more drinking.”

“No, no. No more of that.”

Apart from my belongings, the only things I took from the Baker Street flat were Sherlock’s photograph and his old black clay pipe. I put the photograph in my room, and the pipe was my constant companion. Having it between my lips had to do until I could kiss him again.

My Paddington practice was purchased by Anstruther who along with Jackson had often helped me out and now sought to expand. The practice I bought in Kensington was quite busy, and I was glad of it: with numerous patients to attend to there was no time to brood. As for my literary aspirations, writing new stories filled the solitary evenings I had so dreaded. 

The stories continued to be in high demand, being published in _The Strand_ every month. Newspapers requested interviews with me more insistently than ever, and I didn’t turn them down, for I knew they might reach Sherlock. It was an opportunity to have at least some sort of communication with him, albeit one-sided and censored. 

In August I received a letter with a New York stamp. It was from Mary. She expressed her condolences and asked how I was, so we corresponded for a while. Thankfully, she didn’t mind our fictional marriage and wrote that no one had made a connection between her and the heroine of the book. Perhaps my obfuscation methods weren’t that ineffective.

The Baker Street flat remained as it had been thanks to Mycroft’s arrangement and Mrs. Hudson’s efforts. She was provided with sufficient income not to let in any other lodgers. I did visit her sometimes, as promised, and was touched by a new development: to avoid feeling lonely she had started to serve hot lunches for the Irregulars. I continued to look after their health too, and they called on me quite frequently in Kensington, sharing the latest rumours. I also continued my voluntary service at Bart’s, tending to the poor once a week.

So passed a year. Not knowing anything of Sherlock was hard. Frustrating. Tormenting. Mycroft assured me that he was fine, and I had to make do with that. 

Attention from the press became too taxing. There were more and more invasive questions, so I stopped giving interviews, even though it meant that Sherlock would hear less from me. I poured all my love and longing into the stories. Occasionally Mycroft would get scandalised and cross out the most indiscreet passages. I must admit that having him supervise my writing wasn’t without merit.

So passed another year and then another. I was resolved to wait for as long as it would take. Burying myself in work helped to ward off fruitless anxiety. When I went to sleep I would be entirely exhausted and thus unable to think. 

By the end of 1893, after _The Naval Treaty_ was published, Greenhough Smith asked for a Christmas story, remembering how warmly the public had received _The Blue Carbuncle_. Instead I realised I could not write a word. The material to choose from was abundant, but I would sit for hours, staring at a blank page, and it would stare back at me. It was around the same time that Colonel Moriarty published a series of open letters again, defending his brother’s name. Something had to be done. Try as I might, words still wouldn’t come, so there seemed to be the only solution available. I adapted my old article into _The Final Problem_ and informed Mr. Smith that no more stories would follow.

The effect it had on _The Strand_ is well-known: its sales plummeted. I hadn’t been interested in money in the first place and frankly was relieved to have stopped there. I missed Sherlock. God, how I missed him. Turning to our past cases had made me feel his absence all the more keenly. My self-control was precarious, and I had to preserve my reason to be reunited with him one day.

Now that we are together at last, I don’t want to look back anymore. Sherlock is here beside me. Tomorrow is the 4th of May, and I shall meet the new day with my mind and soul at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I tried to reconcile the discrepancy between FINA and EMPT. In FINA Watson writes of the “event which has created a void in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to fill” whereas Holmes mentions in EMPT that, having escaped, he read Watson’s statement “some months later”. 
> 
> 2) Before 1886, marriages could be solemnised between 8 and 12 o’clock in the morning. Upon introduction of the Marriages Act of 1886, it became legal to get married until 3 in the afternoon. In SCAN, Holmes says, “It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind” and Godfrey Norton urges him to become their best man: “Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.” Therefore, SCAN took place before 1886, and not in 1888 as Watson tells us.
> 
> 3) “...I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again...” SCAN  
> “I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.” REDH  
> “I shall be true. He shall find me ready when he comes back.” IDEN
> 
> 4) Also, tried to solve another riddle of the Canon as to why both Moriarty brothers were called James: Colonel James Moriarty (FINA), Professor James Moriarty (EMPT)

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, do drop me a line below. While art is for art's sake, of course, after months and months of researching and writing, it would be good to know that I'm not shouting into the void :)


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